


Change In the Wind

by the_dala



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26168251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dala/pseuds/the_dala
Summary: The Caribbean sun shines brightly on the Turners’ wedding, despite the gray clouds hanging low over the sea and the occasional rumble of thunder.
Relationships: Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner, Jack Sparrow/Will Turner, James Norrington/Elizabeth Swann, James Norrington/Jack Sparrow
Kudos: 32





	Change In the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published October 23rd, 2005.

_summer_

The Caribbean sun shines brightly on the Turners’ wedding, despite the gray clouds hanging low over the sea and the occasional rumble of thunder. It being the social event of the year, the guest list for ceremony and reception is enormous. The bride is properly acquainted with half the assembled masses, the groom a mere fraction. Yet they both search for a familiar face.

Will looks out upon the crowd, heart a heavy throb within his ribs, as he waits at the altar. Elizabeth beams at him all the way down the aisle, but she also casts furtive glances at the faces on either side of her. After the vows are said, the rings exchanged, and the new couple met with a kiss, she scans the crowd one last time, gives a little shrug, and lets Jack Sparrow slip from her mind for the day.

Will roams amongst the revelers in an intricate pattern, sometimes with Elizabeth at his side, sometimes with his father-in-law, often on his own. He cants his head to hear male voices in snatches of conversation, and once a peal of laughter makes him spin on his heel.

James sips his punch slowly as he watches. He has never been a gambling man, but with true reluctance – for her sake, for both their sakes – he is forced to reassess his perception of the odds.

Later, stretched out on a rug before the fire, he relates all this to an audience whose interest is no less apparent for the way he turns his head away. Jack says nothing, only tugs James down in order to stop his voice in the best way he knows how, and for a long while the only sound is the steady beat of rain on the roof tiles.

_autumn_

Elizabeth has never been a patient woman, and she has never before needed to capture Will’s attention. From the day they met, it was given to her freely. Even realizing that she has long taken it for granted, her resentment stoppers the wild urges that threaten to spill forth. To scream, to plead, to beat her fists against his chest until he looks away from the east window and sees her again. She has always secretly feared to become that kind of wife; she never thought to marry that kind of husband.

One night in October while reading on the parlor settee, she says something to Will that he doesn’t immediately catch. His hands, busy carving a small bird out of a chunk of pale wood, go still and he asks her pardon.

 _Three days_ , Elizabeth repeats softly. Three days since they have spoken beyond _good morning_ or _pass the salt, please_. A fortnight since he has touched her in any but a cursory manner. Her voice and her eyes are deeply worried, not accusatory.

 _Oh_ , says Will after a pause, surprised rather than contrite. He hasn’t noticed.

She shuts herself in the spare bedroom that night, thinking he would scarcely notice that if she had said nothing. Combing her hair in the window seat, she looks at the darkness beyond her reflection and whispers to herself: _fools, all of us._

_winter_

Of course he saw the ship on his way in. Of course he knew her flag, and the admiral she bore, and at least an inkling of the orders she carried.

So his throat only tightens a bit when James finishes dressing and says that the _Black Pearl_ must leave these waters, sooner rather than later, before the new year at best.

The commodore’s gaze is resolute, but it is not without regret – for the nature of this meeting or for each that preceded it, Jack doesn’t know and would not ask. Likewise does James not ask where he might sail next. What he says when Jack’s hand is on the doorknob is _take Turner with you._ Just like that Jack recognizes the faintly floral scent that had graced his clothing before they stripped it off. He turns, crosses the rented room in quick, short strides, and seizes James’s face in his hands. He hopes she can taste him in James’s mouth, and hear his farewell.

The house is fully dark when he passes it. A shadow darts toward the north end of the street. Jack walks onward to the smithy, where a light is burning. The boy is going over his accounts, his back to Jack’s nimble glide through the open window, an empty bottle beside him. He turns at Jack’s first step upon the dirt floor. There are a thousand opening lines in his eyes; Jack waits a few beats until he settles on anger and _You fucking bastard._

He is on Jack with all intimate focus his wife has missed, shoving him against the wall, teeth bared in a snarl. There is rum on his breath. Jack catches a flying fist, forces Will’s fingers to spread until he can twine them with his own. Will grips his hair with the other hand, holding him still as though he truly believes Jack might avoid the insistent press of his mouth. They slide to the floor, fumbling at clothing, Will’s voice ragged and desperate as his touch – _damn you, Jack, you left, you never – you should have known – I can’t tell her – what have you done to me, what in hell have you done?_ Jack would point out that it’s Will who is in fact doing the doing, but all his clever retorts take the shape of a moan and a shift of his hips to take Will inside him, and anyway he knows that isn’t what was meant.

When they leave town before dawn, Will looks up at the second floor of the last house on Queen Street. Jack has seen enough of that particular window and continues on, though he slows his stride.

Elizabeth holds Will’s gaze for a moment, then raises her hand, the sleeve of the white lawn shirt slipping down her arm. Will’s eyes drop to his boots. When he looks up again, she is gone. He hurries to catch up with Jack.

_spring_

Even in the American colonies, there are delighted whispers of scandal – the Jamaican governor’s daughter remarrying, seven months gone with child, with no word as to where her first husband has disappeared or if he even lives. She and the commodore are politely ignoring the questions. Neither seems willing to shed light on the paternity of the unborn babe, though it is generally suspected to be by the man who will now claim it by law.

Will can only stand the chattering for so long. He’s back on the _Pearl_ by sunset, sitting cross-legged by the capstan and gazing up at the sails. Jack finds him after supper. He takes a slice of bread and cheese, but declines the offer of rum. Jack shrugs and swigs contentedly, leaning against his first mate, the looseness of his muscles a stark contrast to Will’s stiff spine.

 _Am I my father, Jack?_ he asks, the question that has been on his lips for months, the one that will not leave him no matter how he tries to distract himself, and Jack can heartily attest how he has tried.

Jack takes a long pull on the bottle, eyes narrowed in contemplation. It’s a valid concern, after all. Finally he answers, in typical fashion, with another question: _would you have stayed, if she’d asked?_

Will gives this as much thought as Jack gave the previous query, trying to quell his curiosity at the implications Jack has raised. _Yes_.

Slinging an arm around his shoulders, Jack grins fondly and pats his knee. _You ain’t your father any more’n you may be any other man, Will._ His hand lingers and slows to a caress as he quirks an eyebrow. _And truly told, my lad, you are like no man I’ve ever known._

Will thinks that he is a more like Bill Turner than he ever dared guess, and a bit like Jack Sparrow for that matter. He has come to the conclusion, bolstered by Elizabeth's various shrewd decisions, that it suits him well enough.

Jack, for all his bravado, still doesn't seem quite convinced. With a frown, he chucks Will under the chin. _Penny for 'em - no, better yet, I'll give you coin to stop you thinking._

 _No need_ , says Will lightly, tucking his hand into Jack’s belt and running a thumb over the hilt of his sword. Jack is forever claiming that he went back to Port Royal to steal it and never intended to get a bothersome whelp in the bargain. Will is forever rolling his eyes and calling him out. And that, too, seems right, as neat a fit as Norrington’s ring on Elizabeth’s finger, her son or daughter in his arms, Will’s blade at Jack’s hip, and the impish grin cast over Jack’s shoulder as he tows Will along to their cabin.


End file.
